


about his brother

by coricomile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kid Fic, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:18:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is seven when the squirming, pink body of his brother is presented to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	about his brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lothiriel84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/gifts).



Mycroft is seven when the squirming, pink body of his brother is presented to him. The baby cries often and sleeps when it isn’t making noise. It’s an unpleasant little thing that makes the quiet, structured sanctuary of his home no longer either of those things.

For a while, Mycroft resents him. His mother and father do not play favorites, but the baby needs more attention than he does, and it chafes. He is old enough, his father tells him frequently, to entertain himself. 

“And you’ve always been such a bright boy,” his mother adds, smiling at him warmly. Ever since the baby was born, her eyes have been dark and her face has seemed older. Mycroft wonders if this is what she looked like after he was born, or if _Sherlock’s_ particular brand of colic is more draining than it should be.

Mycroft does his chores and reads his books and keeps up on the advanced studies from the high school in town. The homework is below him, but the tedium of paperwork and routine is something he enjoys. It keeps his mind sharp, and gets the lingering distaste for the baby out of his mouth for a while.

When Sherlock is seven months old, still nothing more than a wriggling pink thing in overalls, he learns to toddle. It isn’t quite walking- the proper muscles will not be developed for quite some time, even though he seems to be attempting to defy this- but he has found that grasping the walls with his sticky little hands will allow him the balance to shuffle around.

Their parents coo over it, but Mycroft is unimpressed. It is merely the proper order of things. Had Sherlock just lie on the ground, still, at this age, it would be a serious symptom of one of many disorders. Why they make such a big deal about it is out of his understanding. 

It would be of no concern to Mycroft, except Sherlock keeps shuffling into his space. He toddles over when Mycroft is writing, or when he’s trying to read a book. He lingers on, even when Mycroft has attempted to shoo him away, following after him when Mycroft switches rooms.

It’s all horribly annoying.

“You’re too loud,” Mycroft says as he writes out algebraic formulas on the maths homework. He sincerely hopes that the work will be more difficult when he actually reaches high school, or he might die of absolute boredom. 

At his feet, Sherlock babbles and touches Mycroft’s toes. His fingers are cold, but seemingly clean. Mycroft allows this, and Sherlock goes quiet. It seems like a small enough sacrifice.

“You aren’t all awful, are you?” Mycroft asks quietly. Sherlock smiles at him, as if he could really understand. Mycroft hands him a crayon and a sheet of paper, and Sherlock mimics the position Mycroft always finds himself in when he’s been writing for too long. The things he scribbles are not quite numbers, but one of them almost looks like a four. Mycroft picks up his own pencil and resumes his work. 

Perhaps, if Sherlock continues with the silence of study, they can get on. Perhaps.


End file.
